After much loitering and a keen enjoyment of the wilder beauties of Virginia we start on our way to Charleston, one of the oldest historic cities in America, and doubly interesting to us from its connection with the old colonial day, when the British flag fluttered over the inhabitants, and the stars and stripes were things of the future.

Our way lies through wide stretches of uncultivated lands, dotted here and there by negro huts with black babies and pigs tumbling together in the mire. In the course of a few hours we emerge from these uninteresting wilds, and are running through the great swamps which extend for miles along either side of our iron road, and are strictly impassable for either man or beast, though it is said that hundreds of poor human creatures in the old days chafed and fretted and grew discontented with their condition of life, and in their foolish endeavour to escape from it were lost in these wilds. Who knows what cries to God for help and mercy have gone up from the inner gloom of these dismal swamps?—cries that perhaps the angels heard and came down from heaven to answer.

Although we are journeying through perfectly flat country, with never an undulating wave of land in sight, the scenery is ever changing, and never presents the same picture to the eye for two minutes together. There is, of course a certain monotony in the character of the natural pageant that is gliding past us, but the combinations vary both in form and colour, now advancing, now receding as we flash past them; the air is full of light, and queer-looking grey birds rise up and wheel in eddying circles over our heads, flapping their wings, and uttering strange cries, which our engine’s voice has not strength enough to smother.

The idea of a swamp had always presented itself to our mind’s eye as a vast expanse of shiny, slushy soil, half mud, half water, with here and there a rank undergrowth of bushes and stiff grass, and briers, through which it must be a melancholy task to travel,—but it is not so. In travelling through these swampy regions the prospect is neither a dull nor an uninteresting one; whole forests of grand old trees rise up from the watery waste, the rich varied foliage growing so luxuriantly, and in such impenetrable masses that scarce a ray of sunshine comes glinting through. We feel as though by some strange accident we have been caught up by some modern magician, clothed in steel with a heart of iron, and whirled along through the forest primeval.

For hours, nay, for the whole day long we speed through this world of green, now and again the great trees turning their leafy arms into a perfect arch above our heads, as we go thundering on.

Some of our fellow travellers go to sleep, others yawn over a book which they have not energy enough to read, some get out the cards and play poker or ÉcartÉ, according as the spirit of gambling moves them; we hear murmured complaints, “There is nothing to see,” and “What a horribly monotonous journey.”

But to us it is not monotonous; there is life and beauty in the ever-changing lights and shadows of the forest, sometimes most Rembrandt-like in their depth and dim obscurity; in the dainty colouring of the leaves, and the many strange formations of these ancient kings of the forest, standing in deep rank and file, sentinels and guardians of the silent land, their green heads lifted to the skies, their gnarled and knotted feet firmly planted on the earth below. We wonder are they quite dumb and speechless? Deaf to the low whispering of the wind, stirred only to a gentle rustle by its balmy breath? Who knows? What to us is the mere soughing of the wind may be to them a living language coming straight down from the Great Unknown, with a message cheering them in their solitude here with a promise of a hereafter, when they shall bloom in paradise, and angels walk and talk beneath their leafy shade. They seem so lonely here; they have never heard the sound of a human voice; no foot has ever strayed among their fallen leaves, no lovers’ voices made sweet music in the night, no childish babble echoed through their bended boughs.

We are still lost in contemplation, with our thoughts wandering through the soft luxuriant beauty of this forest land, when we slowly emerge from its density into the open country. The landscape changes, widens,—Charleston is in sight! In a few minutes the cling-clanging of the engine bell tells us we are nearing the station—another moment, and we are there.

It is evening now, the lamps are lighted, and but a few scattered groups are making their way homeward through the quiet streets, for they keep early hours in Charleston, and by ten o’clock all decent folk are at home in their beds.

The gloomy grandeur of the “Charleston House”—and it is really a handsome stone building—attracts us not; we stop at the “Pavilion,” a pretty homelike hotel with a verandahed front, and balcony filled with evergreens and flowers, on the opposite corner of Meeting Street. Our room has the usual regulation furniture, without any pretensions to luxury—clean, comfortable beds, chilly-looking marble-topped tables, and the inevitable rocking chairs, without which the humblest home would be incomplete. We go to bed and sleep soundly after our twenty-four hours’ run.

Within all was bright and pleasant enough, but without the prospect was anything but cheering. Our windows opened upon a dingy courtyard, surrounded on three sides by dilapidated buildings two stories high; the rickety doors hung loosely on their rusty hinges, the windows were broken or patched with paper or old rags, and the venetian blinds swung outside in a miserably crippled condition—all awry and crooked, every lath splintered or broken, the paint was worn off in rain-stained patches everywhere, and the woodwork was worm-eaten, and rotten. The place had altogether a miserable appearance, as though the ghost of the old dead days was haunting and brooding over it in the poverty of the present. It seemed to be deserted too, for as we looked out upon it in the light of the early morning, we heard no sound, nor saw a human creature anywhere.

We learned afterwards that these had been the original slave quarters, and are still occupied by the same inhabitants—the freedmen of to-day, the slaves of yesterday, in many cases still serving their old masters in the old way. The servants of the hotel, waiters, chambermaids, etc, are all coloured, or rather coal-black; for as we go farther South the mixed breeds are more rarely to be met with; it is only here and there we come across the mulatto or others of mixed blood, which is rather a surprise to us, for we expected the half breeds greatly to outnumber the original race.

In Charleston two thirds of the population are black, and almost without exception in all Southern cities they largely preponderate over the whites, whose superiority they tacitly acknowledge, and work under their direction with amiable contentment.

Their inherent respect for the white race is exemplified in many ways, especially in the small matters of everyday life. In many of the coloured churches they have white preachers, and these are always the most popular. One old “mammy,” who had nursed a friend of mine forty years ago, and who still occupies her old position in the same family, is accustomed to walk three miles to and from church, though she is over seventy years of age. On her mistress inquiring why she went so far, when one of her own people held service close by, “I’se no sit under no nigger preacher!” said the old woman, shaking her head contemptuously.

This kind of feeling penetrates even into the nursery. The dark nurse will be most devoted to the white baby, while she utterly neglects her own,—hence the great mortality among the dusky brood, which, comparatively, more than doubles that of the whites. An attempt to secure the services of a young coloured girl for an infant of her own race (whose mother was nursing a white child) was met with the scornful answer, “I’se no tend no nigger babies,” the girl herself being black as coal!

It is the same in the schools, for though both white and coloured pass exactly the same examinations, they will not send their children to be taught by their own people. The rank and file of teachers may be coloured, but they must be led, and in all their duties superintended, by the whites! Woe be to the coloured teacher who dares to put a naughty Topsy in the corner! The maternal virago swoops down upon her with direst outcries, and lays her case before the authorities with as much solemnity as could be used in the court-martial of a refractory colonel.

The master mechanics, builders, carpenters, blacksmiths, etc., are generally white, while the journeymen and labourers are coloured; it is the same with the shopkeepers and small traders, their employÉs being of the opposite race.

The great drawback in the labour market throughout the Southern States is the uncertainty of the labour supply. The blacks as a rule are excellent mechanics, but they will not work well unless under strict supervision, and they will only work while necessity demands they should. They have no sense of the responsibility which rests upon their employer, and cannot see that their idle self-indulgence must result in his ruin and ultimately in their own. So soon as they have earned a few dollars they enjoy a spell of idleness till they have eaten them up, and then go to work for more; but this peculiarity is not confined to the dark race. They are a good-natured and simple, but shiftless and utterly irresponsible, people; to-day is all; they apply the scriptural text literally, and “take no thought of to-morrow.” Gay, thoughtless, fond of pleasure and every kind of self-indulgence, and having led for generations past a life of dependence on the will and direction of others, they can exercise no discretion of their own; they are mere machines to be set in motion by the master hand. Generations must pass before they can learn the lesson of self-government, and be led to feel that their own prosperity must be the outcome of their co-operation with the prosperity of others. I speak of the general character of the people; of course there are exceptions to this rule, and many of them. Education is doing its work slowly but surely; there are schools everywhere, where they receive exactly the same training as the whites, and consequently the coloured population of to-day is a great advance on the enslaved race of twenty years ago.

We spend our first day in Charleston in a rambling promenade through the city, so gathering a general view of the whole before we take the special points of interest.

It is a bright sunny day, with a cool fresh breeze blowing, not at all the sort of weather we ought to have considering the season; instead of the hot sun blazing and burning in vindication of its Southern character, compelling us to creep along every inch of shade, and melting us even then, it simply looks down upon us with a kind, genial eye, occasionally winking and playing bo-peep with the woolly white clouds which come sailing across the azure sky, and the balmy breath of the wind is sufficiently cool to render our wraps not only comfortable but absolutely necessary.

Before we have gone many steps on our way we come upon a pleasant party of some half dozen negroes, sitting on a fence like a gathering of black crows, each one whittling a stick and chewing tobacco in solemn silence—not the silence of thought, but the silence of emptiness, their great shining eyes staring at nothing, thinking of nothing, like lazy cattle basking in the sunshine in supreme idleness.

On returning some hours later, we find them in exactly the same place, whittling the same stick and chewing the same quid; they do not seem to have stirred an inch. In odd nooks and corners, entangled in the ragged edges of the city, we come upon similar groups, and I believe if we had returned in six days instead of six hours we should have found them in precisely the same condition.

The aspect Charleston presents at the first glance to the stranger’s eye is impressive in the extreme; apart from the historical and romantic interest which clings to the place, it has a character peculiarly its own, and bears slight resemblance to any other city we have seen. It seems to have stood still during the last century, and is strictly conservative in its appearance and in its ways.

Quaintly tangled streets and alleys cling to the main thoroughfares, running up and down, in and out, in a sort of thread-my-grandmother’s-needle fashion; making a loop here, tying themselves into knots there, and resolving themselves into a perfect puzzle which the pedestrian has hard matter to piece together with his weary feet.

The houses in these out-of-the-way parts of the town are old-fashioned, odd-looking places, some so crippled in their lower limbs as to need the support of strong oaken beams, or patches of bricks and mortar; some are rickety in their upper stories, and lean affectionately on one side so as to support themselves on the strength of their neighbours, as weaker human creatures are apt to do. Everything seems pining for a fresh coat of paint; but they do their best to conceal their need of it, covering themselves with creeping plants or tawdry hangings, hiding their discolorations and bruises with gorgeous hued flowers, and clasping their green mantle round them as we may have seen an aristocratic beggar draw his robe across his breast to hide his rags and tatters. Occasionally, in some obscure corner of the city, we come upon a rambling old mansion of quaint, picturesque architecture, once the home of refinement and wealth, where the great ones of the country lived in a state of ease, luxury, and almost feudal splendour. It is occupied now by hosts of coloured folk; swarms of black babies crowd the verandahs or climb and tumble about the steps and passages, while the dilapidated balconies are filled with lines of clothes to dry; the negro smokes his pipe beneath the eaves, and the women folk, with their heads turbanned in gay-coloured handkerchiefs, laugh and chatter from the windows and lounge in the doorways. How long ago is it since the clank of the cavaliers’ spurs rang upon the crumbling pavement, and sweet ladies with their pretty patched faces laughed from the verandahs, while merry voices and music and hospitality echoed from the now dingy, time-dishonoured halls, and stately dames in the decorous dress and manners of the old days walked to and fro, adding by their gracious presence to the attraction of the festive scene? But these good old days are over; no imperious dames, in stiff brocades and jewelled slippers, pace the wide corridors, or dance the graceful minuet upon the floor; there is no sound of flute and tabor now, but the many sounding notes of labour, the tramp of busy hives of working men and women, and the plaintive voices of the negroes singing is heard instead of it, and who shall say which makes the better music?

It was on the balcony of one of those houses Jane Elliot stood to see her lover, William Washington, march past with his cavalry regiment on their way to the war, more than a century ago. Drums beat and bugles sounded, and as the gallant men marched on she observed they had no flag! For a few brief moments they halted beneath her window while with her own hands she tore the crimson brocade back from one of her drawing-room chairs, and improvised a banner, which they triumphantly bore away, marching double quick time to the tune their hearts were playing.

Years after, in 1827, when she was widowed and old and grey, she stood on the same spot and gave this, her dead husband’s battle banner, to the Washington light infantry of Charleston. It is now held by them almost as a sacred relic, and is only carried on days of grand parade or other special occasions. We may catch a glimpse of life as it was in this Charleston of old times from a writer in 1763, who says:—

“The inhabitants of this Carolina province are generally of a good stature and well made, with lively and agreeable countenances. The personal qualities of the ladies are much to their credit and advantage; they are genteel and slender, they have fair complexions—without the aid of art—and regular, refined features, their manners are easy and natural, their eyes sparkling and enchantingly sweet. They are fond of dancing; many sing well, and play upon the harpsichord and guitar with great skill. In summer riding on horseback or in carriages—which few are without—is greatly practised. In the autumn, winter, and spring, there is variety and plenty of game for the gun or dogs; and the gentlemen are by no means backward in the chase. During the season, once in two weeks, there is a dancing assembly in Charleston, where there is always a brilliant appearance of lovely and well dressed women: we have likewise a genteel playhouse, where a very tolerable set of actors, called ‘The American Company of Comedians,’ exhibit. Concerts of instrumental music are frequently performed by gentlemen. Madeira wine and punch are the common drinks of the inhabitants, but few gentlemen are without claret, port, Lisbon, and other wines of Spanish, French, or Portugal vintages. The ladies are very temperate, and only drink water, which in Charleston is very unwholesome. There are about 1,100 houses in the town, some of wood, some of brick; many of them have a genteel appearance, though generally encumbered with balconies or piazzas, and are all most luxuriously furnished. The apartments are arranged for coolness, which is very necessary.”

Charleston, as I have said before, is strictly conservative in its principles, and in many respects is much the same to-day as it was then. In spite of all its reverses—the internal struggles of the Cavaliers and Puritans, who brought hither their old quarrels and prejudices along with their household gods, from over the sea, its strife with the Indians, its troubles during the British occupation, and its terrible disasters during the late four years’ conflict—it still retains many of its old characteristics; its features are the same, though cruelly scarred with the flames and sword of war. We pass on our way through Meeting Street, one of the chief thoroughfares of the city; it is a long, straight, not overwide, shady street, with beautiful trees on either side, and has a look of almost cloistered quiet about it. There are several handsome churches embosomed in bowers of green, and the ruins of an ancient cathedral, which was burned by accident more than twenty years ago; they point this out as proudly, and cherish it as fondly, as though it were a legitimate ruin, a wreck that old time had left upon their shores.

The long stretch of houses on either side are not of any specially varied or picturesque style of architecture; they are three stories high, and have a rather curious appearance, as they turn their backs upon the streets, or rather stand sideways like pews in a church, their fronts facing seaward, to catch the cool sea breeze which blows down from the battery above. The three-storied piazzas running round every house, the green venetians wholly or partly closed, not a soul in sight, either from within or without, give an appearance of almost oriental seclusion to the place; one half expects to see some dark, laughing beauty peeping out from among the flowers. The dear old city is full of romance and beauty everywhere, and as we pass through the silent street—silent, yet speaking with an eloquence that surpasses speech—the ghost of the dead days seems marching with muffled feet beside us, and the very stones seem to have a story to tell. We feel as though we have fallen upon an enchanted land, where time is standing still, and the years have grown grey with watching. Here and there we come upon a large empty mansion, one of the grand dwellings of old colonial days, whence the tenants have been driven by adverse circumstances; it stands staring down upon the street with blank, glassy eyes, perhaps with a rent in its side, and its face bruised and battered, its discoloured, painted skin peeling off, and slowly rotting. People have neither time nor money to rehabilitate these ancient mansions; they must needs be deserted by their owners, who have gone to seek their fortunes in the eastern cities, while the old homes are left to decay.

From this pretty shady street we come out upon the Battery, and stand for a moment to look round upon the peaceful scene, and enjoy the balmy breeze which sweeps straight from the near Gulf Stream. This is a delightful promenade and pleasure ground, where the good Charlestonians from time immemorial have come for their evening stroll, or to sit under the leafy shade of the scrub-oaks, gossiping with their neighbours. The Battery grounds front the land-locked bay—a sheet of crystal water about three miles wide—around which, and on the opposite side, lies a perfect garland of softly-swelling green islands, which stretch far away out of our sight. On each side, running like arms from the bay, are the Ashley and Cooper rivers, holding the town in their watery embrace. Around three sides of the Battery there runs an elevated promenade, raised about two feet from the grounds, which are beautifully laid out in pretty, white shell walks, grassy turf, and gorgeous flower beds, while groups of fine old forest trees, that have heard the whispering of many centuries, spread their leafy branches far and wide. Turning their backs upon the town and facing this lovely land-and-water scene, stands a variegated collection of fine old-fashioned houses of quaint architecture. Some are landmarks of the old colonial days; each one differs in form and colour from the other, but all are fanciful structures with elaborate ornamentation; some are circular, some flat fronted, some curving in a fantastic fashion, and seeming to look round the corner on their friends and neighbours, to assure them they are not proud though they have turned their backs upon them; some have wide balconies of stone, some light verandahs with green venetian blinds or graceful ironwork clinging to their front; but everywhere creeping plants and brilliant flowers are growing.

The view on all sides is most picturesque and lovely, and the fragrant air is a delight to the senses. Here is the real aristocratic part of the city, and here to this day, in spite of the many freaks of fortune, the descendants of the old Huguenot and Cavalier families inhabit the homes of their ancestors, whose familiar names still echo on the ears of the town. With lagging footsteps we take our way homeward through the city, losing ourselves and finding ourselves more than once. Altogether we come to the conclusion that Charleston is a sober suited, gentlemanly city strongly impregnated with the savour of old days; somewhat worn and grey, but thoroughly dignified and pleasant, full of old-world prejudices and decorum that no flighty tourist would care to outrage.

We have merely glanced at the outer aspect of the city, to-morrow we must visit some interiors and the more definite features within and around it. As we enter our chamber after our long ramble we hear the sounds of merry voices, and the passing of people to and fro in the courtyard; then suddenly amid the shouting and the laughter there rises a choir of voices, a hush falls everywhere—they are singing “The sweet by and by.” We approach the window and look out. A group of coal-black negroes are sitting round one table piling up rich ripe strawberries for our dessert; close by is another party shelling peas. It is these groups who are singing. Their plaintive melancholy voices affect us solemnly; but even as the last notes are trembling on their lips they begin to play monkey tricks on one another, turning somersaults in the air, grinning from ear to ear, and chattering like magpies!